


Among the leaves so green

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Fluff with a hint of angst, M/M, christmastime is here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 01:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17070824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: It startled him, this happiness; he wondered how the joy he felt could still be this sharp.Or, two scenes from a cottage, December, 1719.





	Among the leaves so green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alrena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alrena/gifts).



> [alrena](http://dacasyo.tumblr.com), I hope you have a wonderful holiday!
> 
> Best wishes to everyone else in the awesome silverflint fandom as well, fa la la la la la. :)

Flint almost stumbled on the path. 

What stole the air from his lungs was not the weight of the package in his arms, which he shifted to ensure loose apples didn't go tumbling out the top. He couldn't blame the hours he'd spent earlier sweeping the shop and then standing at his easel. He was not so far in time from his former profession as to be fatigued by painting rosy life into a little girl's cheeks. The breeze, biting cold and smelling of salt and wet tin as it rolled inland from the nearest shore, was as innocent as a babe in a manger. 

The coppery light from the far window became, therefore, the only culprit. Flint had seen it and for a moment could not breathe. It startled him, this happiness; he wondered how the joy he felt could still be this sharp. (Especially considering how much he still loathed England.) In another moment he was able to relax, though he walked with more urgency, anticipation lifting his feet and pushing him forward like another gust of wind. He'd reached the cottage steps and was fumbling for his key when a muffled voice on the other side of the door announced, "It's unlocked."

Following that, the voice said, "Shit fucking hell!"

Yeah.

"May I help?" Flint asked once inside. He put down the bundle of food; the table nearest the door was the only surface in sight not festooned with enough holly in buckets to fill a church.

Silver stood with precarious-looking balance on a wooden chair at the juncture where the kitchen ceded to the hallway. He was busy nailing to the arch a bough that surely had fallen to earth by lightning. Flint had a difficult time imaging Silver being able to bring it down by mortal means. Perhaps he'd used sorcery, necessitating sacrifice: scratches red as berries were hatched across his wrist and the back of his hand.

"You seem to be have been wounded," Flint pointed out as he went over.

"Only mortally." Silver braced his clean right hand on the wall. "How's it look?"

"Very festive." Flint reached up to put his hands on Silver's waist. "Come down from there before you break your neck."

Silver let him help him to the floor but gave a low growl of displeasure in the process. He huffed as he grabbed up his crutch. "You came back."

The question threw Flint for a split-second. "Of course." 

"Ada is fetching the rest of the holly by wagon in the morning." Silver glanced around, counting off. "I think there's plenty for her, don't you?"

"I think there's plenty for her inn and possibly every house, store, or market in between here and there." Flint looked down and his stomach jittered. "I literally washed this floor no more than ten hours ago." He casually snatched up Silver's injured hand.

"Ssss," Silver hissed and tried to pull away.

"You're about to start dripping blood on my clean floor," Flint said. "Sit and I'll fetch something."

"Fine." Silver wumped into the chair with another grumpy noise. As he looked around his expression brightened. "The holly does cheer up the room."

"Doesn't have as crisp a scent as evergreen," Flint said, "but it's pretty." He returned to poking around in the cabinet by the window. They were out of that last batch of liniment with the rosemary and lavender. He spotted a jar of honey -- no, too wasteful, when sugar was at such a premium. The witchy henbane ointment would have to suffice.

"Gerard thinks it will snow by Christmas," Silver said when Flint approached. "Says he knows because the cows started lying down in the fields. I inquired if perhaps they were simply tired, or bored."

Flint let out a soft laugh. "Gerard have an answer for you?" Somehow he'd gotten honey on himself and made the ointment jar sticky.

"No, but I inferred he found me to be an erudite and provocative sort of genius. Then he had me peel four tongues, ostensibly for a customer tomorrow. Sss-stop." He tried to twist out of Flint's grip as Flint smeared a glob of ointment over his wounds. "Ugh, that's so much worse than the scratches were." 

"I'm impressed you cut down a whole holly tree by yourself," Flint said conversationally, kneeling to get a better purchase. "Will the rightful owner mind?"

"Lady Bell commissioned me herself to prune it."

"Yeah, I hear she's much seen at the markets lately, propositioning all sorts of miscreants." 

Silver chose to ignore that. "I should switch professions, become a tree harvester instead of working for butchers and barbequers, now the area has trees again to fell." He sat forward to pull the tie out of Flint's hair; at his fingers scritching against Flint's scalp Flint almost lost consciousness from bliss and leaned into his hand. "The real problem is, I'd need a cabal of pirates to protect me from the mistle thrushes. There's one out there at the edge of the woods right now plotting my doom," Silver said.

"Plenty of people to keep him company on that front." Flint examined Silver's hand: it seemed properly doctored. He replaced the lid on the jar. "I myself could give such a thrush advice. List your dislikes, your weaknesses." 

Silver's fingers went still. "Such as?"

"You hate peeling potatoes. You're not particularly fond of winter."

"This thrush going to lob potatoes at me? Chase me into a snowbank?"

"You've no use for the Bible."

Silver narrowed his eyes and recited, in grand flourish -- Thomas would be so proud, Flint thought -- "'Yea, the stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times; and the turtle and the crane and the swallow observe the time of their coming; but my people know not the judgment of the Lord.' Horseshit, and the thrush would agree with me."

Flint slipped his hands back onto Silver's waist and nudged his knees apart as he slid closer. "You've proven to be capable of almost anything, if it would keep your loved ones safe," he said at Silver's ear, as if it were a true secret.

"That doesn't sound like a compliment," Silver said in a soft voice, which pricked at Flint like a holly leaf.

Flint brought him even nearer. "It wasn't supposed to." When Silver stayed silent, his eyes dark and shining, Flint said, "I once heard a story about a man who sought such vengeance against the unspeakable evil which had murdered his lover he fled to another land and became the leader of a great, motley band of bloodthirsty, thieving raiders, the most ruthless and successful the island had ever seen. He killed a countless number, this giant filled with rage; he was nearly unstoppable."

"I may," Silver said, and coughed a small cough. "Seems I may have heard something about such a captain. They said that in the end, for all his terrible deeds, he died a mundane death, of drink, and is now all but forgotten."

"All but forgiven," Flint said, nodding.

"Well." Silver shrugged. "Some also say this is the right season for that sort of thing. But for myself, I've never had much use for it."

"The season, or forgiveness?"

"Either."

Flint kissed his forehead. "The holly does look splendid, though." 

Silver put his arms around him and Flint responded in kind. He held Silver because despite everything he could; because Silver felt solid and whole and precious in his arms; because Silver let him. 

"How is Monsieur Barlow née Hamilton, these days?" Silver asked after a moment, his face tucked at Flint's throat. "Since you invoked the infallible word of the almighty earlier."

Ah. Flint knew he'd seen the letter yesterday. "He's fine. He's...learning to draw."

Silver pulled away to blink at him in confusion. "For money?"

Flint snorted. "We should hope Parisian standards are not so low."

"You know," Silver started, too thoughtful to be allowed to continue.

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"You have that lilt to your voice, like you're about to concoct some long-winded scheme, deceptions upon obfuscations upon inveiglement, at the end of which we'll have to steal a herd of cattle or something," Flint sighed.

"I was just going to say," Silver said, tossing his head back and puffing out his chest as if the most respectable and honest of men, "that when you write Thomas you should invite him to come visit. For drawing lessons, or whatever."

"Hmm. Pretty certain he's going to stay well clear of England for the foreseeable future."

Silver glanced away. "We might have said the same thing about you, several months ago."

"Nevertheless, here I am." 

That seemed to placate Silver. He slumped slightly against Flint. 

"I'll invite Thomas," Flint said, "and you can invite Madi."

"She might come," Silver conceded, "to see you. She no doubt misses _you_." He managed to appear only a reasonable amount of sad, instead of desperately bereaved. 

I miss her too, Flint thought; I miss them both. He didn't say it aloud. It wasn't as though Silver didn't know.

"Do you want to see what I procured from the pavement market?" he asked instead.

"Sure," Silver said, with a small smile.

Flint stood up stifling a groan -- fuck all, the day at the easel had come to exact its revenge -- and went to his findings. "Apples," he began, pulling them out one at a time. "Dried blackcurrants. Two nutmegs, which were roughly as expensive as the leg of beef you were tasked to bring home. Sultanas." He scrambled at the bottom of the sack. "Oh, and mace, of course." Because nothing was ever simple, he'd had to buy that from a different vendor than the nutmegs. 

Silver had gone over to peruse the recipe Flint had left on the counter under the window. He picked up the bit of parchment and whistled low. "You're going to ignore where it calls for half a pound of prunes, yeah?"

"There are exactly three left in the cupboard. I think their addition will more than suffice." 

Flint lined up the apples on the windowsill to either side of the candles lit there. Silver's hair was shorter than it had been when they had first met, which somehow made it curlier. Flint had certainly seen his beard in a far shabbier state. Silver was older than he had been; there was no trick that kept the days from advancing. But. The way Silver was illuminated, waiting, made him seem younger, the glow flickering around his oddly delicate features like an enchantment -- his eyes like sea-glass, his collarbone traced in gold.

I cannot believe I went almost three years without seeing your face, Flint thought, his breath catching once more.

As if Silver had heard him, he turned, studied Flint briefly. What do you see, Flint thought, but then Silver was taking his hand, running his thumb over his wrist. 

"There's bread left from breakfast and a bit of cheese. If you were interested," Flint said.

Silver raised up to kiss Flint's temple and beneath his eye. "I'm not really hungry right now." 

"Yeah." Flint started to walk toward the hallway, Silver's hand in his. "Me neither."

~

In the cool bedroom, they had undressed each other slowly, rediscovering. Silver kissed him with soft, teasing kisses, and then let Flint catch him. The warmth between them grew from gentle and playful to gasping and helpless, a conflagration that had not ceased to shock Flint as much for how well they fit together as for how painfully he'd believed, not long ago, he would never be allowed to have this. Afterwards he was left sprawled naked across the bed, taking large gulps of air like he'd just been pulled out of a shipwreck.

Silver, his sweaty head heavy on Flint's chest, said, "We wouldn't've-- When we first-- I mean to say." He took his own deep breath and lifted his head. "It wouldn't have been like that, if we'd done this before? _Before_ before?"

He seemed so dazed and awed Flint had no option but to smile at him in complete amusement. "Probably not." He ran his fingers into Silver's hair and felt him shiver. "Although. Maybe."

Silver grinned back; wicked was still a good look on him. He cocked his head suddenly. "Listen," he whispered.

Flint did. He heard literally nothing but the wind creaking against the tiny window. "What--"

"Listen," Silver insisted.

And from some distance, a song began to form as if from nothingness, spun by youthful voices creeping nearer: "'Good master and mistress, while you're shitting by the tire, pray think of us poor children, who are wandering in the fire'--" 

"No, no, no," someone older and exasperated called out, the voice rising and falling as it passed by the front of the cottage. "'While you're sitting, _sitting_ , by the _fire_ ,' that's where you say fire, 'pray think of us poor children, who're wandering in the _mire_.' Try again!"

The carol faded as the giggling kids continued on their mirthful way down the lane. It took Silver another five minutes to stop laughing.

Flint moved up the bed to the pillows, dragged Silver as gingerly as he could in the same direction, found their woolen blanket and wrapped them both up in it; he marked the crook of Silver's arm with his fingertips. That curious sharp joy flared in Flint bright as a star. 

Silver told him, "Christmas is not the worst season, to be fair." Flint was content to let that be the last either of them said for the evening -- he enjoyed the way Silver would sometimes pick up a thread of conversation that had been over for hours -- when Silver added, very quietly, "It's nicer when shared, I think."

The easiest way for Flint to show his agreement was to kiss him. They didn't talk again until morning, not really, but much more was said before either of them slept.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Though "Here We Come A-Wassailing" seems to have cropped up as the carol we'd recognize today in the mid-1800s, the verse the kids sing [may have come from an older song from the 1600s](https://www.hymnsandcarolsofchristmas.com/Hymns_and_Carols/Notes_On_Carols/wassailing.htm). Musical recycling! 
> 
> \- [Mistle thrushes are passionate/hostile about holly trees they like](https://www.bto.org/volunteer-surveys/gbw/gardens-wildlife/garden-birds/a-z-garden-birds/mistle-thrush). Dunno if one would be so hepped up in December, but let's say the one with a death wish for Silver is just extra enthusiastic.
> 
> \- Silver, of course, quotes from the King James Bible (Jeremiah 8:7); later translations sometimes substitute thrush for swallow, heyyy.
> 
> \- [Christmas, or plum, pottage](http://www.foodsofengland.co.uk/plumpottageorchristmaspottage.htm) is probably...uh...interesting to eat.


End file.
